A/N: Apologies to anyone who came here looking for more Merlin - don't worry, I'm still writing that but this would not leave my brain so I had to get rid of it. At the mo I'm trying to write a thousand words a day, but I can't say what I'll be writing. Regular uploads (twice a week, maybe) are my plan. At the very least expect something every Sunday (as long as the summer hols are about). Anyway, here's the story:

Nobody dared leave the teenager alone on the sofa. Nobody said how they feared he would just disappear again. Nobody spoke as he slept, not wanting to wake him, even though they longed to talk to him.

Somebody was watching him at any given moment.

When the slightest movement indicated the end of his sleep, they crowded around the couch, silent so they wouldn't disturb him even though they thought he was taking far too long and he really should have already woken up.

Another movement, and a hand came up to rub at his face. He sat up, eyes covered by the hand. They moved back in unison, giving him space, crushing eachother in their eagerness to remain as close to him as possible.

He moved his hand away and opened his eyes.

Peter's eyes are wrong. The thought is identical in everyone. What they noticed first wasn't the colour, the wrong colour (they should be blue, why are they brown, where did those red chips come from?), it was the expression, the widening at the sight of them, his friends, the vaguest hint of what might have been fear.

But that was ridiculous. Peter was, of course, overjoyed to see them. The shift backwards in his seat, the eyes (the wrong colour, the wrong expression) flicking between each of them, the flat line of his mouth - they meant nothing.

He'd been missing for over a year, of course he was acting a little bit strange.

The identical thoughts came again, each one instructing them to break the silence, which immediately became a cacophony of overlapping voices. Peter shifted away again, arms clenching the seat cushions, cornered by the arm and back of the sofa.

The red chips in his eyes grew larger, until they matched the brown in size. Peter bit his lip and the chips stayed still, but the struggle was obvious to anyone who wanted to see it.

And at that moment, nobody did.

After what must have been a millennium, they noticed he'd stayed silent. They acknowledged the fear in his eyes, in his posture. They all took a step back, then settled themselves on the sofa around him. They didn't mind that he was so overwhelmed.

Natasha sat on one side of him, and Clint shifted him over so he sat on his other side wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Peter looked a little bit squashed but it wasn't like he'd care.

They broke into conversation around him, deciding to let him stay quiet until he felt ready. Eventually, the red in his eyes shrank, throbbing slightly when someone laughed too loudly. Dinner time came and no one could be bothered cooking, so pizza appeared twenty minutes later.

They flocked to the counter at the sound of the doorbell. It took them a moment to notice that Peter was still on the sofa.

"C'mon, Pete, pizza," Clint grabbed hold of his arm and dragged him into his chair. Peter was now sat between Tony and Steve.

Steam rose slowly and the scent of cheap cheese filled the room. It was greasy and had a ridiculous plastic texture and probably contained more than a few disgusting things, but the team stuffed their faces like starving men.

Slices were shoved on Peter's plate when he made no move to feed himself. The boxes were empty before they noticed that those slices remained untouched.

That was when they got concerned.

"Pete," Steve said. "You've not said a word all night. Are you okay?"

Peter stared at the table, not seeming to have heard Steve.

He flinched violently when a hand came to his shoulder. Tony edged back, whipping his hand towards himself at the sight of Peter's harsh glare.

"Look," Natasha said, trying to be slow and diplomatic, as Peter couldn't handle much else at the moment, "we're all a bit worried about you." Peter was staring at the table again.

"You're quiet and you haven't eaten. I know that a lot will have happened to you. I know that you want to sort it out. I know that you might not want to talk about it yet. That's fine. We just want you to know that we're here. Okay?"

Peter didn't look up.

"Peter?"

A few people looked at the same spot on the table as him, trying to see if there was a reason why he was staring there.

There wasn't.

"Peter, look at me."

His hands were clenched together, sharp nails cutting through his skin.

Natasha took a gentle hold of his chin.

The red chips in his eyes grew again, and he kept himself from looking at her, even as she pointed his face towards her. His eyes were wary, indecisive.

Clint was frustrated by the one sided exchange, and thought that Peter just needed a little push to start. "Pete, would you quit being such an asshole!?"

The result was instant.

Clawed hands fixed around the archers neck, sticky feet propelling the two across the table to the floor. Clouded red eyes met clear blue. More red slipped through the teen's fingers, slipped from Clint's throat, as a growl slipped past pointed teeth shown clearly in a snarl.

Hands pulled at tense shoulders. Lines of red appeared on the side of Clint's neck as his assailant was yanked off of him.

The teen with red eyes and skin under his fingernails twisted, grabbing his attacker's shoulders and flipping to hit him in the shoulder blades, knocking the man, Steve, on top of Clint, and firing the boy towards his next victim.

Claws swept past red hair, digging into shoulders, while hidden claws on a slim foot raked across a woman's belly, through muscle but not quite reaching organs. She doubled over in pain and the teen used her as a springboard, slamming into a slight man with brown hair who obviously had no combat experience.

It was an unfortunate mistake.

Just as the teen's eyes had gone red, the man's skin turned green. A second passed before a meaty fist clutched a skinny leg and forced the leg's owner onto the table.

Plates smashed and cut into the teen's skin. He writhed against the hold of the emerald giant but he couldn't free himself. Claws raked uselessly against the bulletproof flesh.

A man with a goatee and a needle startled the flailing teen, but there was nothing he could do to keep him and his needle away from his neck.

Moments later the teen's eyes were closed and his expression was peaceful. The avengers stood up and Bruce went off to calm down. Only Clint and Natasha were injured but neither seemed to notice. All eyes were on Peter, who slept and appeared calm.

Nobody knew what to do.

That was a thing I wrote. Things will be explained but tell me if you're confused cos I know the whole story already and so do not get confused by missing details. Comment or whatever if you have questions (bearing in mind that you're meant to be about as confused as the avengers are).

Bye til next time!